Tired Eyes
by Zelda148
Summary: Something not quite rght is going on in London but things are be getting put right without Sherlock.


She's peering out into the darkness ahead of her as she wobbles down the road, shoes in her hand.

"Shit." She giggles to herself as she stumbles off the pavement. I step forwards, mentally preparing what I am going to say. Fumbling to put my gloves on I cough quietly.

She doesn't hear me.

I cough once more, louder.

She turns.

"Erm, excuse me?" Finally I speak.

"Oh, hello handsome." She smiles, biting her lip and looking at me from under her lashes.

"I saw you tripped, a bit too much to drink?"

"A little bit."

"Would you like a lift somewhere?"

"Oh yes please, that's so nice of you." I hold out my arm fro her; a perfect gentleman. She grasps it and we begin to walk away from the light-filled street. "Where are we going?" She lets out a self-conscious little laugh and and glances up at me.

"To my car, it's just around the corner." I smile reassuringly at her and she lays her head on my shoulder.

"Oh right, okay."

She stumbles again, using me to keep herself upright. We round the corner and she looks around for the car.

"This is a dead end." She gestures towards the metal gate a few feet away. "You said... you said your car was here?"

"Yes. I did say that, didn't I?" Pushing her against the wall I clamp my spare hand over her mouth before she has a chance to scream; as they always do. I lean close to her so I can see her pulse speeding up in her neck and smell the sweat on her skin. Slowly I place the hand holding her to the wall on her throat, keeping her in place by pressing my knee against her thigh, and gently begin to squeeze. Her pupils dilate and I can feel the adrenalin pumping through my veins.

She squirms, kicking against me as what's happening hits her but I'm stronger than her. Footsteps resonate behind me so I move my hand from her mouth and place my lips over it instead. She bites my tongue and I can taste the blood blossoming from it.

A hand appears on my shoulder, pulling me away from the girl.

"Not this time." The rich, deep voice echoes in my ears as the hands force my arms back, grasping my wrists and holding them behind me. Cold metal touches one of my wrists and I hear the click of the handcuffs closing. "It's okay, I'll be with you in a second."

Th girl's panting slows and she nods; this mysterious man seemingly a calming presence. He drags me towards the metal gate and attaches the other cuff to one of the gate posts.

The man returns to the girl; checking her pulse and breathing then draping his long coat over her shoulders. He runs his slender fingers though his errant curls and sighns. He whispers something to the girl and she hands him her phone.

He's going to ring the police. I'm done for. I think to myself.

He doesn't though. He types something. Sending a text? Then he spins on his heel to face me.

"You're very quiet. Usually they're all 'oh, but it wasn't how it looked, I promise, I haven't done anything wrong'. You're wearing gloves! Of course it was how it looks. It's the middle of July! Who wears gloves in July!? Yeah, it's England so it's bloody cold, even in July but we're British, we don't take any notice of the actual weather, just what season it's meant to be. Stupid people. I always have my scarf, just in case. Far more sensible than you lot, with your stupid seasonal clothing. I'll never understand fashion."

"You're mocking me?" I attempt to hide the confusion in my voice and meet his eyes defiantly.

"You think you're kidding me with that look. Pfft. And yes, of course I'm mocking you." His tone is scathing and a smirk spreads across his face. "You're so boring, if you had to kill defenceless women you could have done it in a more interesting way. Something unique, different. Every serial killer who focuses on women either lures drunk girls away then kills them or grooms them over the internet. It's so boring." I stare at him, astounded as he paces in front of me, spinning the girls phone between his fingers. He glances down at it, and tuts. "Thank you." He hands the girl her phone back and takes his coat back off her.

Then the sirens come into earshot. I can hear them before I can see them on the walls of the street ahead of me. I begin to struggle, pulling against the handcuffs.

I shout: with frustration at first and then pain as the cuffs start to cut into my wrist. When the police arrive two men head the rest. The taller man, with tired eyes and silver hair, approaches me and shakes his head when he sees the handcuffs.

"Oh, he gave me a key." The girl speaks up, sobered up after her shock. She's being looked over by the other man, short and wearing a striped jumper, and hands him the key.

"Here." This man is different, his eyes are also tired but not in the same way. They're not tired from lack of sleep, more like from over-thinking. He limps over to the taller man who raises an eyebrow. "I can't help it, it's come back since... you know... since then." He passes him the key.

The taller man, who seems to be a police officer, undoes my cuffs and walks me to the car, pushing me into the back of it. The other man, a doctor prehaps, helps the girl into the back on an ambulance, wrapping a garish orange blanket around her. He gives her empty smiles and words or warmth and comfort which float to me through the open door of the police car.

I watch him through the front window of the car, intruiguiged by him; how he offers his patient smiles and kind tones and his collegues receive vacant, loney stares and abrupt sentences.

The man with the coat has gone.

The girl describes him to the doctor and he looks around, his tired eyes warily hopeful.

The policeman slams the door of the car shut and turning the key, starts the engine. The doors of the ambulance are shut too, the paramedics chatting to the girl in the back, trying to lift her spirits.

The doctor stands on the pavement, hands in his pockets, still glancing around him. As the car pulls off he fades out of sight and when he thinks we can no longer see him his shoulders drop and his eyes drift shut, as if he's given up on something. He wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand.

I wonder why he's crying.

* * *

_Thank you for reading, reveiws are welcome._


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